Free The Winds of Khalakovo by Bradley P. Beaulieu

served on her for six months. She’s as stout as they come.”
    Borund peered up at the rigging. “She needs a season’s worth of repairs before she’ll cross the neck.”
    “A season’s worth...” Nikandr shook his head. “A week at most. I tell you—”
    “Ranos,” Borund said, ignoring Nikandr. “My father made our position clear. We will not accept ships that are ready for pasture. Bad enough your brother allowed our prized ship to be damaged beyond repair, but now you try to pawn off the debris of your fleet as if we’re Motherless beggars who’ll take anything we’re given.”
    Ranos’s face hardened. “My brother saved your life, Bora.”
    Borund scoffed. “ Nyet , Ranos. You had the right of it when you said Nikandr should have done something sooner. So it was on the quay, so it was on the Gorovna .”
    “Bora,” Nikandr said, raising his hands. “This was in jest. Only in jest. This isn’t one of the ships you’ll be given.”
    Borund’s face was pinched. He was tight in the shoulders and in his stance. Nikandr thought he would come down from the heights of anger, but if anything he grew angrier as he stabbed his finger at Nikandr’s chest. “This is no time to joke. We are no longer children, you and I. We are men. I am a Prince of Vostroma, in line for my father’s scepter, and you play a prank on me as if I’m your servant boy?”
    Nikandr shook his head, confused. “We used to do this all the time.”
    “There are many things we used to do, Nikandr, none of which make the least bit of sense to continue, including your insulting refusal to accept the hand of my blood and bone as you should—with grace and humility.”
    Nikandr realized with those words how much Borund must have been holding back on their ride together from Volgorod. He had seemed, if not cheerful, at least jovial, something akin to what they had once shared together, but Nikandr realized now it had all been an act. Borund had become much more like his father than he ever would have guessed.
    A piercing whistle tore through the cold morning wind, burning away the tension that hung between the three of them. There was a moment of silence as the entire eyrie turned its attention seaward.
    An incoming ship—a twelve-masted barque—was listing to one side as it drifted toward the eyrie. Nikandr recognized it immediately as the Kroya , Father’s missing ship that had weeks ago been presumed destroyed or taken by raiders. There was a momentary sense of relief, but that emotion was soon tempered by the signs of battle that became more apparent the closer it came.

CHAPTER 7
    The eyrie master’s loud voice bellowed, shouting for landsmen to run double-time to the eyrie’s topmost level. Using bright red flags, a flagman waved signals, telling the ship which perch it should take.
    Ranos turned meaningfully to Nikandr.
    “I’ll take care of it.” With a quick turn to Borund, Nikandr snapped his heels and bowed his head. “Good day to you, Borund.”
    Borund did not reply as Nikandr left, and he was glad for it. As heated as the discussion had become, either one of them might say something they would come to regret.
    Nikandr’s anger faded as the wounded ship approached. As was proper for an approach to the eyrie, only two of her mainmasts—starward and sea-ward—had any sails to speak of; the sails along her windward and landward sides were tucked in completely. Two of the foremasts were shattered near the halfway point, and the forward rigging was stripped bare; most likely the crew had taken it down to begin repairs before reaching the eyrie. The hull below the bowsprit had sustained several holes the size of pumpkins and a landscape of pockmarks from grape shot. The forward cannon, which would have sat at the base of the bowsprit, was missing. The crew had most likely jettisoned it, for any loss in the delicate balance between the masts would cause severe instability, forcing the kapitan to reduce the metal